


Spark of Life

by RunicRaven



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Regret, Temporary Character Death, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26048335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunicRaven/pseuds/RunicRaven
Summary: With Hell being Arthur's final resting place, will his mind hold together, or will he perish into the void?
Kudos: 2





	Spark of Life

"There's no next of kin. No family listed. John's already called the nearest funeral director. I'll . . . put him downstairs." The mortician told the nurse and lead doctor.

The body was stiff, cold, and covered in a white sheet as it was carted through the brightly lit hallways, then transferred into a cold storage drawer.

Arthur opened his eyes, only to see nothing but darkness surround him. He felt the flicker of fire against his skin, but no flame was present. No heat source identified. His skin boiled and felt like charcoal as his screams were muted in the stark black environment.

"Mr. Ketch. I grow tired of feeling you slip through my fingers. The next time we meet, you're mine. No magic will stop it from happening. I can promise you that." A voice roared in the void. And then . . . silence. The burning ceased, and boils receded. But why? Why, all of a sudden, was it cold as ice? Why did his veins feel like a highway of icicles that lead to a heavy stone boulder in his chest.

His eyes flickered open as breath took fully in his lungs. The air burned as it entered his half frozen body, and vision murky at best.

"Not again... " His voice cracked and broke as he felt completely confined and unable to move.

/Come on Arthur . . . panic will do you no good. Breathe, take in your surroundings, find a way out./

His eyes darted in every direction as the darkness resisted to show him any sign of his surroundings. His mind started to panic, and his nerves sparked feeling back into his limbs. The only sound he could manage at a decent volume was that which could be confused for a walking corpse. A zombie, in other cultures.

The mortician clacked his shoes down the hall as he neared the cold storage room. His whistle full of life and vibrato that he nearly missed the thumps and thuds from one of the drawers. He pressed his glasses up his nose as he stared, wide-eyed at the single drawer,

"George Romero, you son of a bitch." His voice trembled as he slowly approached the rattling drawer. His fingers wrapped around the cold metal handle, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

As he pulled out the metal rack, Arthur lurched from the cold slab and tackled the mortician to the tiled floor,

"Don't eat me!!" The mortician cried as he covered his face,

" . . . what . . . ?" Arthur croaked as he removed himself from the floor.

He scurried across the room and grasped at any sheet he could find, wrapping it around his waist, and fumbling through the exit door, his vision fogged. As he burst through the exit door, the sound of security close behind, he found nothing before him but the curtain of darkness and the heat of flame upon his skin.

He heard the soft whisper as his eyes fell slowly, the world turning black around him.

"Welcome back." A deep rumbling of a voice called out to him as the fire snapped at his skin. Arthur opened his eyes, the all too familiar orange and red surrounded him with the foul stench of char and brimstone choking his senses,

" . . . how??" He gasped as he tried to move. His wrists bled from the friction of the rusted chain that held him against a dark stoned wall. His hair ruffled, face partially blackened from smoke exposure, and eyes bloodshot beyond recognition.

"Aww, poor baby couldn't bare the fires? Tsk tsk, we will have to work on your endurance, your fortitude!" The figure howled with a greasy smile smeared across his lips.

He stepped closer to Arthur and nicked the bottom of his chin, "You thought you escaped, didn't you? That's precious." He giggled madly as he rose his hand. A grand inferno blazed up from below Arthur's bare feet and engulfed him completely, muting any scream that might have come from his now black and charred throat.

The figure stood a few feet away, a clipboard in hand and jotted down a few check marks on a very long list. The flicker of colour filled the dark room and roared as the wall turned completely black now behind him,

"Enough." He said, his tone bored and disappointed. He snapped his fingers and drew down the curtain of flame, the body of Arthur but a hanging, blackened corpse, "For someone of your ability, I expected . . . SOMETHING." He spoke to the body. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and waved his hand to reveal the once cooked body now turned semi normal. Breath was restored to his lungs, skin made new, muscles relaxed, but mind kept with memory,

"Congratulations, Mr. Ketch . . . it took an entire THREE seconds this time around. Much better than last time."

"Fuck you." Arthur croaked with closed eyes. The figure threw his head back and laughed maniacally,

"We'll work on that sense of pride next, yes? Oh how I love this part." He turned around and snapped a table of tools before him. He picked up a large metal blade with screws and coils coming from different parts of the device,

"It's alright to scream." Time passed differently in Hell. Seconds felt like days, and days like years. Arthur kept track of the day by when the demon walked through that special doorway leading into his chamber. He seemed to visit twice a day, morning and night. He only guessed this timeline due to the last visit being followed more quickly by another visit.

"Seven days. Days are weeks and weeks are months, months years, years . . . " He mumbled incoherently as his mind attempted to make sense of what it could. Calculating time grounded him for now.

He pulled at the chains and listened to their jingle as they clanked against the charred stone wall. The feeling had completely vacated from his fingers, and half his arms were useless.

This was his fate, and he didn't argue against the decision for his final judgement.

He hung against the wall, blood stained arms and torso from previous lashings yesterday morning. But it wasn't the physical pain that pushed him over.

No.

But the thought of not feeling the cold of the tiled floor against his bare feet, the smell of nature, of clean cloth, of the mortician's aftershave. No matter how real it may have felt, he knew it couldn't be reality. Why would he deserve such peace? After Mick, Mary, Sam and Dean... Eileen. This sentence, it was acceptable.

"Good . . . DAY to you Ketch! How's meat hooks sound?" The demon nearly glided into the room, gleefully, with a tray of shiny metal hooks,

"I was thinking to myself, self . . . you've not given this man the view he deserves. So . . . I'm here to grant you a promotion of sorts. The penthouse suite! Afraid the only way up is . . . " He dangled a couple hooks from the tray and shrugged, "service is on the house. Sorry for any inconvenience." He hissed before plunging the hooks into Arthur's flesh.

Aside from all the pain, the piercing and burning brought to his body, he could only hope that his actions during his final moments of life were worth something. That he had gained but a sliver of redemption, at least in the eyes of the Winchesters and their allies. He hoped it was enough. That whatever they managed with the time given to them, that it...was... enough. That his death was worth it.

"Going up!" The demon cackled before continuing on with the sentence bestowed upon Arthur Ketch, from now until times end.


End file.
